


With Nightingales in Your Hair

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Gen, Magic, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Send forth flowers," he read, "as the lily, and yield a smell." A pause; she distantly heard him swallow. "And bring forth leaves in grace, and praise with canticles, and bless the Lord in his works."</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Nightingales in Your Hair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drcalvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Two Winds and the Silver Bible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/854884) by [drcalvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin). 



> Based on The Two Winds and the Silver Bible by drcalvin, a beautiful fairytale-inspired story which, among other things, diverges from canon regarding Fantine's fate. Read that story first, as this one probably won't make all that much sense on its own. :-) 
> 
> Many thanks to Stripy for great feedback and suggestions, and to drcalvin for the permission to remix one of her fics -- I hope this pleases!

_1823_

Fantine's cough was worsening: not even old Mother Goose's witchcraft draughts would have helped her now. On those occasions when she lifted a hand to gaze at it with tired eyes, it seemed to her that she was fading, becoming nothing, such was the pallor of her skin.

The Mayor came every day to see her. She had heard the tales, spoken in hushed but admiring tones, of his powers, and so she begged him every time to bring Cosette to her -- only this, that he would bring her daughter; it was the only thing that mattered now. He would take her pale hand between his own, look at her with kind, sad eyes, and promise, once again, that he would see it done.

One spring afternoon, he entered with a little girl in tow: a skinny little thing, with lank hair and bony features, dressed in a black gown. "Cosette," the Mayor said, "come and let your mother see you."

For a long, horrible second, Fantine didn't recognise her -- her plump, lovely child, turned into this pitiful creature! -- and then, she saw herself as through the eyes of another, her shorn hair and her missing teeth, and she thought she would burst with sorrow and joy, a joy she had not felt for many years, not since leaving Montfermeil. "Cosette," she said, her voice a faint croak. "Come, my love. Please let me see you."

The girl walked over to Fantine's bed, timid but determined. Fantine raised her pale bony hand and touched her daughter's cheek, her vision blurring.  


"Thank you," she whispered, to Cosette and to the Mayor and to anyone who might be listening: she had lived to see this day.

  
***

  
Monsieur Madeleine came back three days later, looking pale and worn but not offering any explanations as to where he had been. Cosette was still with his housekeeper, who had taken her to see Fantine every day but that one. The woman had taken her to buy some new clothes, he said; Fantine would see her in the morning, after they both had had some rest.

Fantine gave a smile, though she felt weaker than ever. "Oh, Monsieur," she said, shaking her head just a little. "I'm not sure I will be here in the morning."

Though she wasn't sure -- her vision was weaker than ever -- it seemed to her that he grew even paler. "Nonsense," he said, taking her hand, as was his wont. "You will live, Fantine. You cannot part from your child, now that you are finally together again."

"I wish..." The word died in a cough from her lips. She wet them with a heavy tongue, and then tried again. "I wish it wasn't too late. But it has been too late for years. And now I know my little girl is safe, I can be at peace."

"Fantine." His hands were rough and warm against hers. She heard the pain in his voice, and was sorry for it. "You are too young to die."

"Promise me," she whispered, turning her head towards him. "Promise me, Monsieur, that you will take care of her, that you will love her..." She coughed again. "As your own."

"But you will be there," he said gravely, pressing her hands. "We must trust that God would not take you from your child."

"If God wants it," she murmured, "He will let me watch over her and love her from beyond the grave. He will let me live in the rain that falls on her face, or in the air that she breathes. It's all I ask for now."

Monsieur Madeleine removed one of his hands and put it to his face. After a moment he said quietly, "Your soul will be there. But please, Fantine..." He hesitated, then continued, "Would you let me -- help you?"

She was growing more tired by the second, so she simply nodded, pressing his hand with all the force that was left in her.

"If you permit it," Monsieur Madeleine said, "you will have your hair back -- not as it was before, but fresh and green as the Garden of Eden itself -- and you will shelter the birds with your arms; you will rest on soft soil and sleep under the stars, with larks and thrushes and nightingales singing in your hair. I have taken care of trees before..."

Here he hesitated some more, then said, his voice very gentle, "If only so that you may be there, in spirit if not in body, so that you and Cosette will never more be apart."

The words seemed strange to Fantine, but also beautiful, like balm to her weary soul. "Can you do that?" she whispered, though she already knew the answer. If there was good magic in this world, this man possessed it.

He pressed her hand again. There were some moments of silence, and then he said, "I could, but -- Fantine, I am a condemned man. My past haunts me, and tonight, or tomorrow at the latest, they will come for me."

"Your past," she muttered, vaguely remembering the gossip and rumours she had heard. Well, what did it matter? She was condemned by her past as well. "Will you run?"  


"No," he said. "That is to say -- not unless you need me to."

"But I need you to." Again she pressed his hand. "If you're not there, who will take care of Cosette for me?"

Another pause. Then he returned the press of her hand. "I will be back soon," he said.

"God bless you, Monsieur," she murmured, closing her eyes.

"Please," he said, his voice thick. "If you want to, call me Jean."

  
***

  
When he returned a little while later, she found that she could not keep her eyes open. She let him open her hand and put something in it: a twig, it felt like, with leaves still on it; it was supple and smooth to the touch. "Are you afraid?" he asked, gently touching her brow.

"No," she said, her mind filled with Cosette's smile and her little hands and her large, blue eyes. "Never again."

There was a rustle of a book being opened. "Send forth flowers," he read, "as the lily, and yield a smell." A pause; she distantly heard him swallow. "And bring forth leaves in grace, and praise with canticles, and bless the Lord in his works."

The last Fantine felt before she closed her eyes, was the pain in her body easing, the pain of her mind fading, the pain of her heart dissolving. A warmth filled her, reminiscent of bright days of her childhood, running barefoot through the woods outside Montreuil, soft moss and grass under her feet, specks of sunlight dancing in the leaves above her head.

A last sigh escaped her lips, along with a faint smile, as her eyes fluttered closed and she felt her life seep out of her human limbs: her body was broken but her soul was vibrant and happy and alive; the roof above her head was no more, the earth underneath was welcoming and safe, the world held no more terror, and the sunlight and the stars were hers.

  
_1828_

Cosette was still a skinny and gangly child, but when Fantine raised her head and straightened her back, in her human form once more, she thought her daughter could not have been more beautiful, not with such radiant smile on her face. "Mother!" she said, stepping forward so that Fantine could bend once more, this time to stroke her cheek and kiss her brow.

The man whose name was Jean Valjean stepped forward too. Fantine took his hands between her own and held them. "My friend," she said, smiling at him. "You have protected us well, these last five years."

He returned her smile, ducking his head a little. "I would have offered you the soil of Montreuil, if I could," he said. "But there was no choice."

"I prefer it here." It was true; Montreuil held too many dark memories for her now. "Here they will never find us. And you promised me stars above my head and birds singing in my hair -- what more could I ask for? Come, don't look so sad! Tell me instead of the new school you have found for Cosette." She turned back to her daughter. "And you, little miss, must tell me all you have learned today."

The late rays of the spring sun fell over the house at Rue Plumet, over the garden and its secrets, where a man and a woman and a child shared stories and hopes and dreams, nothing above them but the evening sky and the song of the nightingale.


End file.
